


Mountain Stronghold

by AtomicPen



Series: Wings Straight and Swift Will Bring Us Home [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: 100 Days of Fic, 100 Days of Sebastian, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Ficlet Sequence, Ficlets, Gen, Post-Game(s), fics, friendships, relationships, romantic relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/pseuds/AtomicPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Not even the oncoming tide could hold us back forever.</i>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <i>series of short ficlets from my tumblr's 100 Days of Fic challenge <a href="http://atomicpen.tumbltr.com/prompts">masterlist</a>, in chronological order, following Sebastian at various points post-game</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rough

She should have been a whittler, he decided. Years she had worked on him--subtly, at first, then more and more brazenly, until he finally relented and took the shape she wanted him to, that he eventually admitted he wanted to be. Or perhaps she was whetstone to his blade--sharpening his dull, smooth edge until the barest scrape against skin risked bringing forth blood. There had been so much forgotten until she brought parts of him back to life he thought had been laid to rest for good.

She was subtle at first, and he knew she did not spend nights alone regardless of him, but she was always relentless, always honed on him as if she lacked something only he could give her. As the years went by, he could feel her proximity to him growing, and after a while, he could not--did not want to--stop it. Like a bow strung too many times with a string too taught, it was only a matter of time before he cracked and gave.

There were things he should have expected, given the tools of her trade, but they caught him by surprise, anyway. The handles of the long daggers and kama axes she trained and fought with had given her hands specific callouses, and he sucked in a breath to feel their roughness over his bare skin for the first time. She snatched her hands away, worried, but he grasped a wrist with long, calloused fingers of his own, and kissed the hard skin along the inside of her palm. He traced along the edges of the toughened spots, and smiled to see gooseflesh raise on her arm.

"I'm not soft," she said, and he couldn't quite decide if she meant it as an apology or a declaration. His eyes left her skin to find hers.

"I've always known that," he replied. "Are you having second thoughts?" he asked, searching her face for signs of regret. "Isn't that my job?"

She snorted, a somewhat unladylike sound. "After all the years I've waited for this? I think not, Sebastian Vael. You can't escape my trap easily as all the others those nimble fingers of yours disarm." She leaned over him, hair whispering down to brush against his arm.

"Nimble fingers of mine, hmm?" he repeated, spreading his hands to encompass hers, matching callous to callous. "I once boasted I could get anything open," he went on, eyes never leaving hers, though one of his hands drifted down her side to pause at her hipbone, eliciting a shiver from her. "Shall we see how much I can remember?"

The look she gave him was enough to heat his blood by itself, and made him wonder why in the Maker's name he had kept himself from her, from this, for as long as he did. "I think we should trade techniques."

He lifted himself up, closer, to feel the heat from her skin on his jaw. "Aye," he breathed against her bare ribcage, and heard her heart flutter a little. "But let me go first. I need to play catchup."


	2. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[promise](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760165)**

She should have been a whittler, he decided. Years she had worked on him--subtly, at first, then more and more brazenly, until he finally relented and took the shape she wanted him to, that he eventually admitted he wanted to be. Or perhaps she was whetstone to his blade--sharpening his dull, smooth edge until the barest scrape against skin risked bringing forth blood. There had been so much forgotten until she brought parts of him back to life he thought had been laid to rest for good.

She was subtle at first, and he knew she did not spend nights alone regardless of him, but she was always relentless, always honed on him as if she lacked something only he could give her. As the years went by, he could feel her proximity to him growing, and after a while, he could not--did not want to--stop it. Like a bow strung too many times with a string too taught, it was only a matter of time before he cracked and gave.

There were things he should have expected, given the tools of her trade, but they caught him by surprise, anyway. The handles of the long daggers and kama axes she trained and fought with had given her hands specific callouses, and he sucked in a breath to feel their roughness over his bare skin for the first time. She snatched her hands away, worried, but he grasped a wrist with long, calloused fingers of his own, and kissed the hard skin along the inside of her palm. He traced along the edges of the toughened spots, and smiled to see gooseflesh raise on her arm.

"I'm not soft," she said, and he couldn't quite decide if she meant it as an apology or a declaration. His eyes left her skin to find hers.

"I've always known that," he replied. "Are you having second thoughts?" he asked, searching her face for signs of regret. "Isn't that my job?"

She snorted, a somewhat unladylike sound. "After all the years I've waited for this? I think not, Sebastian Vael. You can't escape my trap easily as all the others those nimble fingers of yours disarm." She leaned over him, hair whispering down to brush against his arm.

"Nimble fingers of mine, hmm?" he repeated, spreading his hands to encompass hers, matching callous to callous. "I once boasted I could get anything open," he went on, eyes never leaving hers, though one of his hands drifted down her side to pause at her hipbone, eliciting a shiver from her. "Shall we see how much I can remember?"

The look she gave him was enough to heat his blood by itself, and made him wonder why in the Maker's name he had kept himself from her, from this, for as long as he did. "I think we should trade techniques."

He lifted himself up, closer, to feel the heat from her skin on his jaw. "Aye," he breathed against her bare ribcage, and heard her heart flutter a little. "But let me go first. I need to play catchup."


	3. Decision

Years later, he tried to pinpoint it. Tried to remember exactly when he chose to retake his throne in Starkhaven. It had seemed so monumental at the time, so life-shattering, and earth-shaking, and now he couldn't quite recall when that moment was.

Was it one of the times when Hawke confronted him about it in the Chantry? No, that was unlikely; stubborn and bull-headed as he was, he was less likely to settle on a decision because someone seemed like they were forcing him into it. Not that Hawke ever forced--she always urged him to do what was right, but she always did lean toward him retaking his principality. He had no doubt that was due to a bias in attraction on her part, which he couldn't fault her, seeing as how he had suffered from the same affliction for her.

Could it have been one of the periods of meditation he often would go into? That was probably not the time, either. More often than not, during those times he found other things on his mind--the situation in Kirkwall, the concern he felt over Hawke's friends, the concern he felt over Elthina and some of the other lay sisters and initiates he had grown to know over his years with them, and, more often than not, Hawke herself. Anything but why he should or should not retake Starkhaven in his family's name.

As he leaned back in his chair and watched his wife play with their newborn son on the floor, he realised when it had happened. He didn't feel like he could have Hawke without Starkhaven, and the instant he admitted to himself that he did, in fact, want her for his own, that was the moment he knew he had to retake the throne. He smiled. It was a moment he had never once regretted.


	4. Give

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[steal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760032)**

He found her on the parapet he had shown her when she visited Starkhaven the first time, before she had picked up her life and moved here to be with him. It overlooked one of his favourite views of his provinces--their provinces--and he delighted in thinking she felt the same about it. It was turning to fall, and the lands sprawling out beneath their feet were all burnished coppers and fiery oranges, in sharp contrast to the deep azure of the sky and the winding Minanter. A sharp wind snapped through the air, however, and he knit his brow in concern as he joined her near the edge, where she had her hands resting on one of the merlons.

"S _íe criedhen_ ," Sebastian said gently, pressing a hand into the small of her back. "You shouldn't be up here with no coat or cloak; you'll catch cold."

His wife tossed him a glance over her shoulder, wind tugging at her red hair. "Oh, Sebastian, I've had colds before, you know."

A smile spread across his lips and his free hand ran over her growing belly. "Aye, you have. But the wee bairn has not."

"I'm perfectly fine. You're being fussy."

"Am I not allowed? My first child on the way and you expect me to act differently?"

Maebh Vael laughed, and the crow's feet around Sebastian's eyes crinkled at the sound. She had never laughed much in Kirkwall, and it had taken her years after what had happened there for the music to return to her voice. Taking her hand in his own, he lifted it to kiss her knuckles.

"No, I suppose not. One of us has to be the worry wort, anyway," she teased him, as he slipped hidden fingers into his pocket and drew them out, closing his hand tight about its contents.

"Aye, true. And what's one more worry for my shoulders in addition to the principality?" He chuckled as she punched his chest.

"Ungrateful sot." She went to hit him again, grinning, but he grabbed her hands and kissed them once more. Lifting the hand that had been in his pocket to put something in her grasp, he watched her eyes as she turned her palms up to look at what he gave her.

"Sebastian..." she breathed, then looked up from the rosy coral ring in her hands to his face. "I thought you'd never give this back to me."

Surprised stopped his proud look halfway, and he gave her an incredulous look. "You mean to say you knew I had taken this from you?"

"A coral ring, two tiger's eyes, an onyx necklace, and a carved dwarven statuette," she listed. He snorted out quiet laughter.

"You were never a Hawke," he told her, cupping her face in his hands. "You're a magpie."


	5. Illness

They had all wanted to visit, sooner or later, but he was torn in actually allowing them to do so. On the one hand, who was he to dictate which old friends saw his wife and which didn't? On the other hand, he couldn't help but feel that his wife had received and entertained more than enough people in her time, and now that she had finally stepped down from the Viscountess position, she deserved some peace and quiet. Even from old friends.

"Who is it this time?" he asked his seneschal, Coryn. The man glanced down at the missive in his hands.

"One Varric Tethras, one Donnic Hendyr--" _Oh no,_ Sebastian thought. _That can only mean_ \-- "and one Aveline Hendyr."

"Maker's teeth, there's no way I could keep Aveline from Maebh even if I wanted to," the Prince muttered under his breath.

"Sire?" Coryn tilted his head in question at the older man, as Sebastian rubbed the greying hair at his temples.

"Let them see her," he told Coryn. "But bring them to me first. I should... I need to talk to them first."

The seneschal gave a short bow. "As you command, Sire."

As Sebastian watched him go, he felt the acute pang of the loss of Reginald--his former seneschal. Coryn wasn't incompetent... but he certainly lacked the finesse and quick mind Reginald had possessed even up to the very end. But that was neither here nor there.

Instead, he prepared himself, getting up from his chair before their old companions arrived--his knees ached a lot, especially in the dampness of spring, and he did not want them to see him struggle from sitting to standing. Holding his hands behind his back loosely, he went over to the window in his study and watched the rain streak down the old glass.

"Choir Boy!" The familiar endearment made Sebastian smile--he was hardly that any longer, after years of ruling Starkhaven with Hawke at his side and four children underfoot, but he suspected he was always be that to Varric. "Good to see you."

"It is good to see you, too, Varric," he replied, turning to face the three that entered his study.

The years had been kind to Varric--his smile was just as broad, though his hair was whitening and his girth perhaps a little softer than the solid rock he was nearly thirty years ago. He still dressed just as richly--now with a closed shirt, Sebastian noted--and still wore his hair tied back, though it was longer. He clasped forearms with his old, dwarven friend, who patted him on the elbow as they were doing so.

"Your Highness," a different male voice he identified as Aveline's husband, Donnic, said with a polite inclination of his head when Sebastian looked up to him. A smile spread over Sebastian's mouth.

"Please, we are all old friends here. Call me Sebastian." The Prince stepped forward to shake hands with the former Kirkwall Guard. "Where is your wife?"

"Here," Aveline said from behind him, sounding tired. Sebastian looked over Donnic's shoulder and managed to hide his surprise at the last second. Donnic stepped aside so Sebastian faced her fully.

The Aveline he remembered was tall, strong, and not to be easily ignored, even if she were silent. The Aveline who came to Starkhaven today was a far cry from that. Her coppery hair had turned ashen-grey, her skin had a grey pallor to it, and even her freckles were faded. No longer did she stand tall, but now leaned heavily against a thick, gnarled cane. She was thin, too, thinner than he thought was healthy--he could see her cheekbones too prominently, and the knuckles on her fingers were sharp in contrast to the carved wood they grasped. He waited too long to greet her as he took it all in, eyes flicking across her face, and she gave him a wan smile.

"We should have warned you, I suppose. I haven't been at my best recently."

"I... Aveline, what...?" He knew it was tactless, but after spending so many years around his blunt wife, he had picked up on some of her habits. That, and he knew of all people, Aveline would mind such direct questions the least.

To his surprise, Donnic answered for her. "Consumption," he said softly, sadness tingeing his words. Sebastian's mouth turned down in a frown.

"There must be something--"

"No, Sebastian," Aveline sighed, the argument obviously an old and worn one. "We've looked into it already." She glanced at his chair, but did not ask if she could sit. He thought about offering it to her, but decided to not insult her pride that way. Looking back at him, she continued. "That's why I'm here. To say goodbye while I still can."

He watched the flash of grief flicker over Donnic's face, and saw the same reflected on Varric's.

"Well," he began with a wry grin despite the edges of aching sadness that he felt. "I was going to warn you all about the crotchetiness of my wife lately, and how all she wants is to be left alone in her doting years... but I somehow don't think she will mind very much."

That, at least, elicited a chuckle from Varric, and a hoarse sort of laugh from Aveline that sounded as if her chest were wet and hollow all at the same time. He was about to allow himself a small victory in cheering her up for a moment when the laughing turned into a wracking cough that had Donnic whirling and catching hold of her as her cane clattered to the floor. Her hand produced a cloth from one of her coat's pockets and she held it against her mouth as the spell lasted a full minute or two, with Sebastian and Varric exchanging concerned looks. When she calmed and took a few deep, shuddering breaths, she straightened as much as she could again and leaned on Donnic even as he bent to retrieve her walking stick from the floor. Sebastian saw dark splotches on her kerchief and knew they were blood. His mouth drew into a taut line and he cleared his throat unconsciously.

Aveline looked at him, eyes sharp despite the rest of her condition, and he nodded.

"Come," he said, stepping forward and extending a hand, indicating their direction. "Let us go see my wife."


	6. Drug

He knew now how some Templars felt about their lyrium. The tensing in the back of his head, right where his skull met his neck, pulling on the tendons there and pinching nerves if he turned his head the wrong way. The pulling in his stomach and groin, a torpid mix of both heat and this upset, as if he were tied to the mast on a rolling deck of a ship and could do nothing to alleviate his discomfort. He felt things on his skin when nothing was there--the light scratch of nails or the rough skim of calloused fingertips, both of which sent an electric shiver down to the base of his spine and prickled tiny bumps of gooseflesh along his skin.; He especially felt that when he was too long away. Worst of all was not the pulling heat or the phantom touches, but the cavernous ache where his heart tried to beat. It felt like every time his heart thumped in his chest it grew more sluggish and echoed more behind his ribcage; he could not help but count down the days until he could return.

All those years in Kirkwall were a pale shadow and a poor estimation for the pang of loss he felt now when he was gone to deal with whatever Lord or Lady insisted absolutely required his attention and could not be handled by anyone else, or when Princely duties called him to the further reaches of his rocky principality. Back in Kirkwall, he only had his imagination and brief days and weeks of friendship. Now, he had the rest of the months and years of his life. Hawke had only kissed him once before everything had come to a head, a stolen moment between the demands of a city trying to claw its way back from the brink of insanity, between the illusion of their clandestine looks ( _pushed up against a stone wall in a narrow Hightown street_ , he recalled) and the reality of Anders' jealousy. That moment was one he took out sparingly afterward, to keep his growing addiction sated--it had to be sparing, else he feared he'd grow a higher tolerance to it, and at the time he dared not risk asking-- _or taking_ \--a higher dose of her.

Hawke was intoxicating to him--he had always suspected that, even from the first glimpse of her by the Chanter's board all those years ago, but now he could confirm it with painful acuteness every time he had to leave her in Starkhaven alone. Even with all his duties as Prince, even with a toddler underfoot, Sebastian made sure to make time to be alone with his wife, the most potent drug he'd ever had move blood through his veins.

This most recent journey had taken him near the northeast border of his principality, and kept him from her nearly two months. He felt sure he'd start to suffer withdrawal at any moment on the way back.

His pulse noticeably quickened and he felt his lunch spread within him, demanding more air, as he finally reached Minanter docks. Only one more day until his barge would moor in the Market Ports of Starkhaven and he could bury himself in his wife's arms again. Perhaps for a fortnight, he mused.


End file.
